


I Thrive in Every Season but Autumn

by cafe_au_late, Kuro_Ko, Sephirron, writingwithmolls



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Angst, Betaed we dont die like odessa, F/F, Multi, Polyamory, poetic af, poliamigues, two hands
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-29
Updated: 2020-10-29
Packaged: 2021-03-08 23:14:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,176
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27264820
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cafe_au_late/pseuds/cafe_au_late, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kuro_Ko/pseuds/Kuro_Ko, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sephirron/pseuds/Sephirron, https://archiveofourown.org/users/writingwithmolls/pseuds/writingwithmolls
Summary: Lysithea has fought all her life, year after year, season after season. A countdown she can feel ticking down, shortening her days and her nights until the very end.An end she intends to meet with her loved ones beside her. An end she wants to defy and overcome to make her life her own. An end Dorothea, Constance, and Ingrid will not let her face alone.
Relationships: Lysithea von Ordelia/Constance von Nuvelle/Dorothea Arnault/Ingrid Brandl Galatea
Comments: 3
Kudos: 12





	I Thrive in Every Season but Autumn

**Author's Note:**

  * For [LinaLuthor](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LinaLuthor/gifts).



Hubert's grimace isn't his usual bored, exasperated demeanor. No. It is easy to read through it, it is easy to see the worry in his lime eyes and the twitching of his gloved fingers despite how tight his fists are clenched.

Hubert is worried.

Hubert is scared.

And the realization dawns on them like thunder and snow, leaving them numb and hollow.

"We need to go through with the procedure now," he says, his voice calculated and soft, a strange feature on him. It is wrong. It is so wrong. "I believe we don't have much time left."

"This is preposterous! We aren't even sure if the procedure is ready yet! We may as well kill her instead of curing her." Constance can't be appeased by Dorothea's and Ingrid's grounding hands on her shoulder, she just sees Hubert, the tall dark mage that can't possibly comprehend how precious the life he wants to play with is. How brilliant the mind he wants to tamper with is. How loved the person he wants to cut open is to her.

To them.

His eyes, usually steel and stone, say something all of them can understand but none want to. Clear as the day under the sun in fall, it says a simple truth, one they don't want to speak of in hopes it will never arrive. In hopes they will never have to face it.

"There is no time. Not attempting would be equivalent to a death sentence." The door behind him opens and reveals Linhardt who, for once in his life, looks awake and alert, his kind, blue eyes filled with worry and sorrow. "You know that as well as we do, Constance."

"Yes, but..."

"We are wasting precious time we don't have." Linhardt steps in between the mages, his voice sharp and his demeanor hurried. "Hubert, she's ready, I need you there. Professor Manuela is with her already," he says. Hubert sighs and nods, before turning to them one last time. "Constance, Dorothea." Linhardt looks at them, at how their shoulders tremble and their fingers twitch and their eyes are marked by long nights of little sleep and overuse of magic. "You're in no condition to help. I'll send somebody for you when we have news."

"That's..."

"That's my last word," Linhardt cuts Dorothea off before she even knows what she is saying. His face changes and his expression softens for a second. "You've given her so much already, you can't trade your life for hers, you know she wouldn't want that." Linhardt doubts for a second, unsure how to follow. He knows what he has to say, he knows what he needs to say.

It pains him to do so.

Ingrid, Constance, and Dorothea deserve a last goodbye, however.

"Come in, you can see her before we start," Hubert says, pushing the door and keeping it open for them, the dark room composed of shadows and shades they can't understand or tell apart among the grief that has taken a hold of their hearts and the steel clench that keeps their throats prisoners.

Is this truly it, then?

* * *

_Lysithea knew she was dying._

_She knew it in the way her hands trembled, her vision blurred, her fingers doubted when turning a page. She knew by the way her body rejected food she used to love and it slowly yet relentlessly consumed itself. Day by day, hour by hour._

_Lysithea knew she was dying._

_And despite her best efforts, despite all the books she read, all the spells she learned, all the hours she spent researching, going through the gigantic library as a haunted spirit that was bound, shackled to a knowledge that was yet to be seized, she was powerless to stop it._

_Lysithea knew she was dying, and she could just watch it come, the bitter end to a life so short it was unfair to call complete._

_Her body ached, and it was so general and yet so acute that she wasn’t sure what exactly was in pain because every inch of her skin cried out loud trying to reject what had been imposed years ago. Every bone had given up and every muscle had rebelled against her. Her very organs were the only machines that, somehow, kept her going._

_Despite everything, kept her going._

_They were cutting her flesh open once more._

_Once more._

_Her cries, however, would resonate only in her mind this time, alongside the long gone cries of her siblings she would never forget._

* * *

Lysithea is there, in a slumber that isn't sleeping, isn't resting. They know by the way her eyebrows frown and her mouth tenses, as if she is trying to understand a particular complicated spell. She isn't, however, she isn't studying, she isn't resting, she isn't talking about the object of her studies with that warm and bright beam of light she has when she's fully submerged in her research.

Lysithea is dying and she may never do any of those things again. Lysithea will not wake up to say goodbye, her mind already in a place they can't reach out to. 

Lysithea is but a shadow of herself. Ingrid looks at her fragile body and wonders if this is what the dark mages saw a long time ago when they had decided they succeeded. If this was the state they had left her when they claimed she was a successful experiment and threw her away as if she wasn't worth it or anything else. The knight, dutiful and loyal, gets down on one knee next to the bed and looks at her partner, her frail skin, her pronounced frown, the beads of sweat that are born on her forehead, and grieves in silence.

Ingrid touches her hand, cold, with her own forehead and forgets everything and everybody else in the room.

Lysithea is but a shadow of herself, a husk. It looks like she will never rise from that bed again to busy herself with her books, to get lost in the library of the Abyss and then be afraid of silly ghost stories that Constance would dismiss with a laugh and a kiss. Her voice may never recite magic once more, her eyes may never beam upon finding a new connection, a new idea, a new treasure hidden between lines and behind the words of some abstract mage that lived centuries ago.

Constance tries to go closer, tries to reach out to her and break the moment. This spell has to be a nightmare—has to be a dream she hasn’t been able to wake up from. There is no possibility that somebody so full of life, of ideas, of things to do and to accomplish, with so much future to conquer can just go out, flicker and fade like a candle consumed in a single night.

It can't be true.

It can't be true.

Yet Lysithea is dying, and she can't do anything about it. Her hands tremble, her fingers try to reach out and can't.

Constance can't do anything, she has exerted herself and she knows it.

She is too weak to do anything else. Constance sits on the edge of bed next to Ingrid, and her hand rests on her shoulder as a mechanical gesture she has done hundreds of times. For the first time maybe in her life the warm contact of Ingrid doesn't give her consolation or solace.

Dorothea, her tainted hands that had been willingly marked in her search to help Lysithea, makes her way to the other side of the bed and tries to smile. Her fingers, tired and weak, brush white strands of hair from Lysithea's forehead and her voice, always strong and present, fails her when she tries to call her name. Dorothea can't call for her, she can't smile at her.

The knot in her throat is so heavy she fears she will never be free of it.

Lysithea is there, and yet she isn't. Her hands are cold but her forehead is burning, her very blood is working against her, destroying her piece by piece, centimeter by centimeter.

Minute by minute, second by second.

Dorothea knows it.

Dorothea knows it for she has healed Lysithea so many times before, she has learned how her magic flows, how the untamable power of her spells can break through a battlefield and leave nothing behind. She knows how incredible Lysithea is, how her dedication and her power is unmatched, how her hands can both destroy and care. Dorothea knows Lysithea.

In that bed, about to go through what could be the last battle of her life, she can't recognize Lysithea in the husk that trembles and whimpers and suffers.

It's too much to bear.

Dorothea stays there, however. She sits down next to her and brushes her hair and thinks for a moment of everything that could be and that may not be.

Dorothea bites her lower lip and tries to think to say something, something, just something to break the spell and try to bring Lysithea back to them, to bring her pink eyes and her sweet voice and her mischievous smile.

Something.

"We must start," Hubert, arms crossed, says, tall and ominous, a shadow and an omen rather than a friend. "It's over. We need to do it now."

And in that afternoon when the sun brightens and life changes around them, they can only hear the sound of a door closing behind them. Behind them, just the three—instead the four they should be.

* * *

_And in the feverish dream her mind had submerged in a way to escape a present that had no future, Lysithea tried to run away from them._

_They found her, they always did._

_And they tore her apart._

_The black hounds that wore the colors of the Empire and yet had decimated it as well. The hounds with long tongues and panting breath that bit and hurt and used her flesh as a way to test what they thought was the pinnacle of power. Their bite was poisonous, their words venomous, their very breath was rotten. Crawling from the corners where the shadows were born, relentless, cruel, unerring. They chased her down and picked her apart, layer by layer, cutting open the veins that kept her heart beating and her voice calm and her essence human._

_They took something from her and then twisted her life in ways she didn’t know how to return back._

_She couldn’t return back._

_How many years ago had it been already?_

_How many years since sharp fangs, cold as steel, accurate as scalpels had twisted her blood in such a way she wasn’t to ever be who she had been?_

_She couldn’t remember._

_She couldn’t remember._

_Why couldn’t she remember?_

_Why couldn't she remember and yet she could feel them once more?_

_Why was she back in that place? She had gone away._

_She had gone away._

_She had never escaped from them._

* * *

The door closes in their faces, the heavy wood slamming with such force that they can each feel it in their bones. They pause for a moment as the reality of the situation sets in.

Lysithea is without them on the other side of those doors. It's only a few inches of wood and maybe a dozen steps between them, but it feels like the entire Abyss has opened up to swallow the space.

They look at each other briefly, trying to communicate with only their eyes but failing miserably. Constance claps her hands suddenly—the sound is loud and startling, echoing against the stone walls. Ingrid and Dorothea both look at her, confused.

“I ought to go and tidy up the library. I am afraid that I have left research materials all over the place. I should definitely collect all the papers and go over…” Constance trails off as she begins to list the things that she needs to do under her breath. 

Before Ingrid or Dorothea can say anything else though, Constance is gone—a swirl of purples retreating down the hall at a rapid pace.

Dorothea watches Constance go until she can’t see the other woman anymore. Ingrid clears her throat politely from next to Dorothea. 

“I will also be taking my leave. I’m going to check in on Astra, she was very agitated earlier.” 

“Oh.” Dorothea nods slowly, letting her hair fall forward a bit so that Ingrid couldn’t see the sadness creeping across her face. “Of course. Please send Astra my greetings,” Dorothea said stiffly.

Ingrid nods in return and all but marches down the hall in the other direction.

Dorothea watches her go, too.

It made sense, she thinks. Lysithea is without them for this. It feels wrong for Dorothea to take comfort in Constance’s and Ingrid’s presence when Lysithea can’t right now. Dorothea doesn’t deserve to take that comfort.

With one last look at the closed door, Dorothea leaves as well.

* * *

_Lysithea stirred in her dreams, her frown pained as her body tried its best to fight back and survive. She remembered days of spring, she remembered the sweet, enticing song of a voice she recognized and couldn’t place. She heard it in the mist of her mind, within a dark fog so heavy it could make her limbs disappear and her eyes render useless. She remembered spring days when tea was warm and sweets were abundant and her mind stopped spinning wheels at the same point, gravitating around the mystery she couldn’t solve._

_Lysithea remembered spring days, the soft brown rich as chocolate, the deep green of a season that made everything bloom once again. The air filled with the smell of fruits, with the first harvests the farmers brought to the monastery, with the shy songs of young maidens who believed love was to be found in those early days when the sun was set on a path that grew longer and longer each day. Spring cared for her, it made her mind rest, it healed her wounds through honeyed words and keen eyes that knew when she hurt and knew when she hid it._

_Gentle in its nature, bold in its approach. A deer jumping through the forest, through the foliage and under a golden canopy painted by the sun. It had healed her._

_She had healed her._

_Dorothea was bold, kind, gentle, wise. She was resourceful and her magic ingenious. Dorothea had stood by her every day, every night. She had smiled when Lysithea felt tired, she had snarled when the enemy was close._

_She had poured herself into caring for Lysithea, into healing her and mending what Lysithea thought was broken in her. Dorothea had found beauty in her sullied skin, charm in her telling hair, warmth in her eyes that never stopped looking for an answer._

_Dorothea had nurtured and cared for her will to live. She had given her a reason more to wake up every day._

_Her love had healed her, yes._

_And yet… and yet it wasn’t enough._

_As green and vibrant and powerful and dazing, it wasn’t enough. The fair maiden of Enbarr, in red, green and brown, had comforted her, had watched her grow and grew with her. Dorothea had cared for her, her fingers gentle when caressing her cheeks and telling her she had overexerted herself yet again._

_Dorothea’s hands warm and gentle despite the scars and cracks that slowly and relentlessly had appeared in them as her own magic consumed her. Her need for knowledge looking for an answer none of them could truly find._

_Her magic warm and soothing as the sigh of spring her voice had._

_It hadn’t been enough._

_Lysithea was dying. Spring wouldn’t be but another page in the redemption she had tried to make. She was a flower made to wither and decay. She was but an experiment, a try, and failure for the real deal._

* * *

Aimless wanderings bring Dorothea to the cathedral. 

The once tall and proud structure is marred by the several different battles that it bore witness to. Dorothea has a vacant stare as she leans back slightly in one of the few undamaged pews to observe the stained glass. All of those beautiful colours and hues pattern together to make the beautiful piece of art. Part of the window is broken, the colours missing—the culprit is a meteor that Dorothea summoned during one of the battles. The once molten piece of the heavens now lies in a sizable crater in the cathedral floor.

A piece of the heavens where the goddess is supposed to reside, brought so low as to desecrate the goddess’ own church. The irony in it almost makes Dorothea want to laugh out loud but the empty weight in her chest drains all laughter from the core of Dorothea’s very being.

The sight of the meteor brings a dull ache in Dorothea’s hands, like her they are actually remembering the moment that she brought the heavens down, the amount of magic that flowed through her. 

She doesn’t quite know why she’s here of all places. There aren’t a lot of fond memories. Sure, she liked singing in the choir—but she could sing anywhere she wanted to, the choir in the cathedral was just an excuse to do it properly. No, she’s here because of all the places in the monastery, the cathedral is where she believes she can actually feel magic hum through her body. Here, magic isn’t the fiery meteors—her gaze flicks to her own piece of heaven on the floor again, or the sparking lightning.

Dorothea squeezes her hands together, feeling the sparks of magic ebb and flow between them. 

Magic was such an interesting thing. Sometimes it was difficult for Dorothea to wrap her head around all the nuances and theories that were involved with casting a basic spell, but its effects were unquestionable. The sparks of lightning that she could summon to her fingertips so effortlessly were very much real.

Dorothea had called lightning forth from nothing countless times now. Lightning to arc through the air, blasting enemies with enough power to send them flying backwards. Lightning, careful to avoid her friends and allies, their forms illuminated briefly by the flash of blue as Dorothea clenched her hands into fists to stem the flow of electricity, of magic.

Time and time again, people had told her that she didn’t actually need to do anything with her hands to stop the spell. Cutting of the flow of magic would be enough, she was instructed. But Dorothea continued with her habit nonetheless. How could something so powerful, so real, be stopped simply by willing it? How could she will anything into existence?

Dorothea had learned long ago that hoping and wishing were fruitless measures. Mere fairy tales told to people to beguile them into reaching for something beyond their grasp. Dorothea knew that everything that she wanted, everything that she needed, she would have to fight for with tooth and nail.

Her future would only be secured through her own efforts, with her own two hands.

How interesting it was that her future crashed through her door with three extra sets of hands. 

“Dorothea!” Ingrid’s voice somewhere to Dorothea’s left dragged her back down to reality.

Blearily, Dorothea looked over at the other woman, who was still covered in soot and dirt and blood. Ingrid was still in her armour, Luin propped up against the wall behind her, looking exhausted.

“Ingrid? Are you hurt?” Dorothea mumbled lifting a faintly glowing, gloved hand up to Ingrid.

Ingrid shook her head and reached out to grab Dorothea’s outstretched hand and stepped forward into her space. “No, but you need to rest.”

Dorothea shook her head. “I’m still okay. Lys needs me.” She nodded down at the small form on the bed, curled up against herself in pain.

Their other girlfriend looked so small and fragile on the infirmary bed. Lysithea’s breathing was shallow and her skin was even paler than usual. She had collapsed shortly after the battle had ended, the raging maelstrom of dark magic suddenly falling silent.

Dorothea had rushed to her side and began the healing process, pumping as much healing magic into Lysithea’s frail form as she could. Even as Caspar picked up Lysithea’s limp form and rushed off to the infirmary, Dorothea kept pace with him, unwilling to let Lysithea go.

It must have been hours now. Dorothea poured as much magic as she could muster and then some into Lysithea’s whimpering and shaking form.

She didn’t understand the exact explanation behind what was ailing Lysithea, but she understood that she could use faith magic to help alleviate some of the strain on Lysithea’s already overtaxed body. She could use some of her magic to help Lysithea through the worst of the pain that sometimes overcame her. 

Faith magic was something still so strange to Dorothea. There was something intangible to it. You could really only see the magic as it affected the target, watching as wounds stitched back together, leaving unblemished flesh behind.

But if this strange intangibleness was what could help Lysithea, then this strange intangibleness was what Dorothea would give.

“No, Ingrid is right. You need to rest.” Constance’s voice sounded somewhere to her right and Dorothea tried to turn her neck even further left to see the last member of their relationship, but found herself stuck instead.

Ingrid’s calloused hand pressed against Dorothea’s glowing hand, the rough pads of her fingers catching on the fabric of the glove as Ingrid closed Dorothea’s fingers into a fist gently. The glow emanating from both Dorothea’s hands flickered and then promptly blinked from existence, a habit that she wouldn’t break through sheer force alone.

It was almost like the magic flowing through her body had been holding her up all this time and Dorothea would have collapsed onto the floor if Ingrid hadn’t been there to catch her.

“Dorothea? You’re bleeding.” Ingrid sounded a little bit panicky as she picked Dorothea up and set her onto the bed next to Lysithea. All the beds in the infirmary were already occupied—some of the injured even laying on makeshift cots. 

Immediately, Lysithea curled herself into Dorothea’s side, taking some comfort in Dorothea’s close proximity, whimpers dying a little bit.

Dorothea was too tired to resist, allowing Constance to remove her boots from her feet while Ingrid gently tugged the once white-now-red gloves off of Dorothea’s hands. Ingrid made an audible gasping noise and winced as she saw the state of Dorothea’s hands. The branching pattern of scars that resembled lighting criss crossed the songstress’ hands and forearms from the overuse of the Thoron spell had split open, blood pouring from some of the deeper scars. 

There was one nasty burn on the back of her left hand that had never really healed over. A mishap from when Dorothea was experimenting with dark magic in an attempt to try to find something to help Lysithea’s rapidly deteriorating condition. The magic ended up burning her but thankfully leaving her otherwise unharmed.

Dorothea started wearing white gloves after that incident once she realized that no amount of healing was ever going to make it go away. It wasn’t that she was ashamed of the wound but more so she didn’t want to make the others—especially Lysithea—worry. 

Carefully, Constance summoned up her own healing spell to stop the bleeding. While her healing skills weren’t nearly as impressive as Dorothea’s, she could handle a basic charm to staunch the bleeding. 

Constance and Ingrid shared a look over Dorothea’s exhausted form that Dorothea couldn’t quite wrap her mind around. The tremor in Dorothea’s fingers caused by the repeated over-exertion of magic picked up again. Ingrid held onto one freshly bandaged hand, bringing it to her lips so that she could plant feathery kisses where red had once bloomed on white fabric. Constance held the other, winding the last of the strip of fabric around Dorothea’s wrist and sealing her work with a kiss as well. 

The tremor in Dorothea’s hands was one that never quite went away, one that never was quiet, but when her girlfriends held her so gently, so reverently, for a moment, there was peace.

Dorothea stares at her trembling hands as the cathedral returns around her, mind plummeting from the clouds of a strange dream that is tethered in a moment that felt like a different lifetime ago. No matter how hard she closes her hands into fists, nails digging into the flesh of her palms until the crescent moon herself is imprinted in her skin, the tremors don’t go away. She rubs at her face, the motion disjointed and jerky as she tries valiantly to pull herself together. 

How long has she been sitting in this empty cathedral? How long has she been desperately hoping and praying to the goddess—the same goddess that they seemed to be trying to tear down from the heavens themselves? 

Briefly, Dorothea wonders if this was some kind of divine retribution for what they are setting out to do. She forces the thought from her mind though, that would only lead to a never-ending spiral downward and from the way that the tremor in her hands pick up, it is a path that is best left untravelled. 

It feels impossible that Dorothea would ever be at peace again without Lysithea, if Lysithea doesn’t make it. Dorothea stares harder at her hands, as if the scars would spell out the answers for her. Desperately she tries to reach back for the feeling of peace that she knows has once existed but finds herself grasping at ghosts instead.

What are they doing?

Lysithea is currently in the fight for her life and they are scattered to the winds like dandelion seeds with the slightest breeze. They should be together. 

She has to go find Ingrid and Constance.

* * *

_Lysithea von Ordelia was the imperfect draft for the perfect Emperor they had made. The Emperor that had raised her blade against everything that was considered both sacred and forbidden and Lysithea had vowed to follow to the end._

_Why was that end so soon? Why couldn’t she see it to its completion?_

_In the pitch-black darkness of her mind, just emotions took shape and stirred her memories, her body bedridden and shaking, trembling consumed by fever, her ears incapable of listening to the soothing words that were spoken just for her. Her hands clenched in fists that couldn’t hold the ones that cared for her._

_Emotions that blurred her pain, emotions that spoke from her heart. Emotions that she knew were true and she held close as the precious treasure they were._

_Emotions she had to help her fight what her body knew and despised._

_Emotions she had found were massive and unyielding in the cold and harsh winter that covered the Oghma Mountains in white, black, and blue. The freezing wind that could stop her breathing and numb her feet when she moved from her room to her classroom, first. From her room to the library and the war council later._

_Her frame was thin, her hands excelling at magic weren’t made to hold her cape close in an attempt of keeping herself warm. Lysithea had pushed regardless and the snow in the wind had cut her cheeks and her fingers, proving to her once more how nature itself wasn’t kind but indifferent to her pain. She had pushed again, this time helped by the force of the one that was the embodiment of strength and determination she hadn’t expected to find._

_Strong and secure as the hooves of her pegasus, Ingrid had picked her up every time she had fallen. Not once she had failed or doubted, never minding the scars Ingrid had received in every battle where her lance and her shield had been the shelter the mages had taken refuge behind. Deadly and swift as the wind in winter blowing on top of the Oghma Mountains, carrying the voices of distress of those who hadn’t words to speak their truth, the knight of green and golden and red had stricken enemies down and opened a path for Lysithea to follow._

_Ingrid, spurring her mount forward, had been the pillar of strength the mages had congregated around to banish the black hounds that crawled in the battlefield at each opportunity, barking and charging and biting with long tongues, panting and smiling, never failing to remind her, them, they were close, they were there._

_They were absolute._

_They were there yet again._

_Winter in Garreg Mach had been unforgiving, strong, and deadly. A reminder of the short time she had left, of how life itself seemed to find ways to meet its end sooner. Winter had been harsh and hard. Somehow, sheltered by the wings of a pegasus that was their guard, Lysithea had managed to push forward. She had taken the strength offered, the love given, and the warmth in skin marked by scars and had pushed forward._

_Winter was unforgiving, strong, and deadly._

_It was patient, quiet, and enlightening._

_The frozen windows in the library had seen her perform experiment after experiment, craft remedy after remedy. They had been the silent witness of her tryings and her research. They had watched her fail and had offered no consolation._

* * *

The doors shut behind them in a solemn, hollow click. The halls were empty with nothing but room for grief to settle in and make a home, and if it so pleased, a grave. It was almost too suffocating to handle. Ingrid could still smell the tang of iron as if it was on her, even if she hadn’t charged into battle the past days. She breathes deeply to steady herself, her mind wandering. 

The war had left her no stranger to bloodshed. 

She never minded the fact that it soaked her lance nor if it spattered her cold, pale cheeks. It was the price to pay for freedom. And in a way, Lysithea’s freedom. She had continued to fight for her partner, letting thoughts of Lysithea rest in the back of her mind during battle.

Ingrid had failed.

She had watched Lysithea fall, let her get swarmed by the enemies that wanted to rip apart the mage that had caused them so much trouble. She had gotten her out of there, but Ingrid should have never let her fall in the first pla—

“Ingrid, your armor…”

The knight blinked from her stupor, eyes coming into focus on Dorothea’s concerned emerald ones. She finally looked down on herself since she came rushing back with Lysithea barely conscious. Blood was a small price to pay for an unchained future, yes. But the knight had no intentions of letting Lysithea pay for it with her own. Yet here she was, silver plates decorated in red. She clenched at empty air and then let her fists rest at her sides. 

She shouldn’t have paid at all—not with so much of her freedom already lost.

“I’ll go clean up,” Ingrid replied, her voice sounding as if it were far away—wandering. 

“Do you need any—”

“No, it’s alright. I’ll see you later. I just need…”

Dorothea spared her a smile with her best attempt at comfort. But Ingrid knew better, they both did. So Dorothea let her go search for answers that would never bear fruit. Time was against them as it always has been, they were foolish to think that they had more. 

Ingrid walked back to the stables, ignoring the looks from imperial soldiers that focused on her tattered state. Among the fences, her pegasus stood attentively. Ingrid reached for her, allowing a small curve to her lips as her pegasus nudged her snout into her palm.

“You okay, Astra?” A soft huff was her response. Ingrid stroked her wings that were resting low, no doubt from how hard the knight had pushed her to return home.

_Astra, please, faster. She’s dying._

Astra neighed and nudged at Ingrid’s chest where blood had long since dried. As if the pegasus were asking a question. Ingrid pet her long snout with a sigh escaping her lips.

“I don’t know, girl,” she answered honestly. “You’re worried too, aren’t you?”

A whine. A sound that pulled at Ingrid’s heart and in the same moment, pulled a memory from it as well. 

The war was about to begin and the students at Garreg Mach had chosen their loyalties. Ingrid stood dutifully as a knight of the empire and to the oath she had sworn to protect her loves. To one day free Dorothea from her need to find worth in a facade of royal wealth, for Constance to flourish in her brilliance that wasn’t tied to house names but purely for her own passion, and for Lysithea to escape the shackles of the crest system that had robbed her hopes of living beyond to witness her dreams. 

Ingrid wracked her mind for ideas—any semblance of a thought to rid their grief, if only for a moment. If she couldn’t protect them, there was no knighthood. There was no purpose, in fact, as melodramatic as it was. She never imagined that coming to the monastery would grant her such a purpose—to live beyond duty and honor. 

To love and to cherish.

A fairytale, surely. But it was theirs.

She stared at the sky while lost in thought, the clouds a soft white that drifted freely. It was then it came to her. She searched the halls of the palace, heading straight for the library wing to where she found Lysithea buried in another book yet again. Ingrid approached quietly, peering at the cover before Lysithea had even looked up at her. She didn’t know why she bothered, it was written with runes that she could barely process, no doubt another magical subject. 

“Hey, Lys,” she greeted softly. 

The young mage looked up from her tome and her eyes originally steeped in concentration, softened like petals of a pale rose. 

“Ingrid, hello. Is everything alright? Are you looking for another chivalric tale to read? I think I found some in that section over there.”

Ingrid laughed to herself. Lysithea was always attentive and observant and it warmed her heart where others usually thought she was cold, but they just weren’t lucky enough to be loved by her. The knight shook her head and offered her hand instead. Lysithea looked at her curiously.

“Another time. We should find one that we can read together,” Ingrid suggested, pulling a smile and a nod from the girl. She’d never admit it to avoid seeming childish but she loved stories. “But I want you to come with me.”

“Where to?” Lysithea asked, peering down at her book again as if she almost didn’t want to leave it unattended. 

“You trust me don’t you?” 

“Well, yes, of course but—”

Ingrid didn’t leave room for her to answer and pulled Lysithea from her seat. The girl squeaked and clutched the book she was holding, not wanting to leave it behind. She let herself be led all over the palace by the zealous knight and eventually was brought to the stables. Astra from afar greeted her rider with two stomps of her hoof and a shake of her silky mane. 

“Astra! I hope you’re ready!”

“Ready for what?” Lysithea asked from beside her.

Ingrid smiled brightly at her. “We’re going for a ride.”

“Ingrid, I’m not very adept at flight, you know this…” 

“That’s why I’ll be with you. Let me do this for you.”

Lysithea still looked weary. “But what would this accomplish?”

Ingrid scuffed her armored heel against the wooden floor, scattering some stray hay. She finally looked as if she was doubting herself, shy and unsure that maybe she had been too excited. Lysithea waited patiently for her, regardless.

“I just wanted to share something important to me, with you. The war is near and I just… I suppose I wanted good memories to take with us.”

Lysithea sighed and shook her head, the slightest of smirks on her lips. She set her book gently against the stable wall. She was nervous but Ingrid’s demeanor was a charming one, albeit awkward at times. Lysithea offered her hand in turn and Ingrid raised a brow with a hopeful tilt.

“You better not drop me or I will come back and haunt you,” Lysithea warned.

With that, Ingrid swept her off her feet and carried her over to Astra, a hot blush now blooming on the mage’s cheeks. The pegasus regarded the newcomer with a curious look. Lysithea through her embarrassment saw Ingrid’s encouraging gesture as she reached her hand out. Astra leaned towards her and her fingers twitched beneath the two sniffs the pegasus gave her. 

A glittering smile broke on Lysithea’s face when Astra accepted her, nuzzling into her hands. Ingrid smiled fondly at both of them. 

“Don’t worry, we’d never let anything happen to you.”

Ingrid remembered how carefree Lysithea was on that first flight. How they soared through the skies of Enbarr like the world could never reach them. For the first time in a long time, Lysithea was free. Astra glided masterfully through the clouds as Lysithea extended her hands out and laughed as Ingrid held her secure. It all felt so timeless—like Lysithea’s heart was not ticking away and unraveling to a shorter end. 

To be an ordinary girl, just this once. It was from that day Ingrid swore she would bring more times like these, no matter how short lived. The gentle kiss Lysithea would place on her cheek and the way she would skip back down to the library was something worth protecting. Days after that, she’d catch her sneaking sweets to feed to Astra and Ingrid didn’t have the heart to tell her she wasn’t as stealthy as she thought. 

Astra loved her, as Ingrid had loved her. The skies had loved them all. 

_I want to see her soar, again…_

While Lysithea lay in the room alone, Ingrid retreats towards the stables, stopping at a small water basin outside. Even though she is dressed in only a plain tunic and pants with her worn leather boots, there’s armor that lays unattended nearby. In the basin, she rinses the metal of the armor, just stained and not blood-covered, and promptly dries them before letting them lie on the grass, not wanting the droplets to damage the metal further. The meticulous work gives her a few moments of reprieve until she remembers why she was looking for a distraction in the first place.

“Ingrid.”

Ingrid goes rigid and sets her work down immediately, rising from her seat. She turns to face behind her and greets the full red regalia of the emperor herself. Despite her state, she bows before her as if she were in a council or in the royal halls. 

“Your Majesty, forgive my absentmindedness. I did not realize you had been standing behind me.”

“Ingrid, please, there’s no need for all this.” Edelgard waves this off with a dismissive hand. There is no one around but them and Ingrid relaxes, only slightly. Edelgard frowns at her, not as an emperor or her liege, but as her friend. 

“Sorry, Edelgard. I must be tired,” Ingrid says.

Edelgard peers down at the grass and sees the armor plates strewn about.

“Hubert informed me of everything, Ingrid. It’s okay,” Edelgard reassures.

“Is it?” 

Edelgard doesn’t let the bitterness in the knight’s tone irk her. Ingrid has been too formal and too sworn to her duty even when Edelgard hasn’t pushed her to such lengths. It is purely who she was—her worth driven by her ability to protect and to stand strong despite her turmoil. Edelgard felt deeply for her. 

“I promise Linhardt and Hubert are doing everything within their power to make sure she stays with us,” Edelgard says, undeterred. “However, forgive me if I am overstepping, but shouldn’t you stay with her as well? And with Constance and Dorothea?”

“I—”

“Believe me when I say this, Ingrid. I know what it’s like for her.” Edelgard twirls her own hair on her finger, stark white against crimson. “You are far more knightly than any rank I’ve witnessed—you are driven by loyalty and you use that to fight this war. I’m confident with you and the Strike Force at our side, we can win, and we can free those we love.” Violet eyes turn to the sky as if a fleeting thought has taken her for a flight, away from there. “I will tell you this, she needs you to be weak in front of her, too.”

“I… I don’t understand, Edelgard. I need to be strong, so I can protect them. I can’t afford to be weak!”

Edelgard lets the shout pass. Instead, she places a gentle, armored glove on the knight’s shoulder. Ingrid blinks and her mouth opens slightly. 

“She needs you to be weak in front of her so she knows it’s okay to be, too. You must know how difficult it is to stay strong, don’t you?”

“Your Majesty…” Ingrid says softly, stunned. 

Edelgard shakes her head and gives her friend a smile. “You don’t need an order, do you?”

Ingrid teeters in her spot for a moment and realizes just how right Edelgard was. In the distance, Ingrid spots the familiar messy mop of green hair and stoic eyes. She then sees the even softer smile that overtakes Edelgard’s features when the emperor finds her, too. Ingrid hums and nods at Edelgard, who accepts her answer before striding over to the Professor. 

The emperor of the Adrestian Empire is no longer present, but is simply Edelgard. It is then Ingrid understands. 

She bows in their direction and takes off. She has stray tears on her cheeks in both disappointment in herself, but also in longing that she foolishly denies. Lysithea needs her—she has never asked for anything else but that. She never cares for her knighthood or her duty. Ingrid is all of those things without those titles. Just as Lysithea has been as brilliant and ethereal without crests or noble names.

The answers Ingrid had been chasing after were pointless if she couldn’t have Lysithea flying with her. So on the ground she would stay, in suffering or in joy, until she was ready to reach for new heights once more. 

Ingrid looks up when she hears more footsteps approaching, Dorothea returning with a sad, yet soft look on her face. Yet the instant that Dorothea sees Ingrid, a small smile brightens her face instead.

“There you are.” Dorothea reaches out for Ingrid, hands trembling.

“Here I am.” Ingrid acquiesces, recognizing the tremor that seems to run through Dorothea’s entire body as a sign of the worry and stress that plagued all of them.

Ingrid holds both of Dorothea’s hands in hers and brings them up so she can press a kiss against the inside of both of Dorothea’s wrists. The songstress isn’t wearing gloves today, the scars and burns in plain view for everyone to see. Despite all the scars and insecurities Dorothea has with them, Ingrid thinks that Dorothea is still beautiful, incredible, amazing, irreplaceable—an essential part of the relationship that Ingrid lives and breathes for.

She might not be able to protect Dorothea from the toll that magic has taken on her body, but Ingrid would be damned if she didn’t try to protect Dorothea from the worries that ail her now.

“You seemed like you wanted space, but is it okay if we stay together?” Dorothea looks timid, bashful even, as she speaks.

“I was thinking that would be best.” Ingrid squeezes Dorothea’s hands reassuringly and begins to rub gentle circles against the back of them with her thumb. 

Slowly, Ingrid can feel the tremors begin to subside, soothed by the warmth of Ingrid’s hands and her close presence.

“Should we go find our dear Constance? We aren’t really together if we aren’t _together.”_

* * *

_Fed by the warmth of spring, that had known how to soothe her, driven by the strength of winter, that had known how to guard her, Lysithea had been still unable to buy herself more time._

_She was running out of time._

_She was running out of time._

_She was running out of time._

_It had been stolen, taken away from her, to never be returned back._

_She was running out of time, and they were taking a little more now, second by second, minute by minute._

_It was the brief, ethereal, ephemeral stillness and freshness that followed a summer thunderstorm. Summers that had seen Lysithea elbow-deep buried in work, wearing long sleeves despite the hot, sticky air that covered the land like a blanket they couldn’t get away from. She worked hard, she worked in silence. Lysithea didn’t need to look at her forearms to see her scars._

_She didn’t need to stand under the sun to feel the scorching burn of pain._

_She just needed to close her eyes and remember. Remember what little was left of her and her family, how little she had been when they had torn her flesh open, looking inside her for something that wasn’t to be found in the beating heart of a human being._

_Day and night, regardless of the thunderstorms and the strong winds or the stagnant calm of the scorching sun, she had remained at her spot in the library, all summer looking for an answer. She had resorted to reading tomes she had already gone through more than once, looking for an answer she wouldn’t find there._

_She tried still._

_She tried, she hoped, she wished for it._

_Summer had been dedicated, with a keen eye for detail, and helpful. It had been green and white, the smile of someone who knew more than they let on. The depth of knowledge Lysithea had longed for, deep in the corners of the Abyss library, guided by Constance who seemed to know the way around the building like the back of her hand. Constance who was diligent and attentive, who used big words and a confident voice to encourage her._

_Who poured alongside her, day and night, never wavering, never leaving. She was always there, her dedication unmatched, her focus unreachable. Her eyes were the ones of a predator looking for its prey, a life or death matter that was never to be taken lightly._

_Constance, who to Lysithea was green and white, who was warm and brilliant and unmatched when looking at details. The sole focus of somebody with a goal and the fierce determination to achieve it._

_Constance who in Lysithea’s mind was green and white, the summer in full force, the strength of the scorching sun that wouldn’t stop at anything and would bow to no one. The summer that had given her long light hours to research, to investigate, to keep looking for more. The season that had shaped itself into long days and short nights in an attempt to give her more time._

_Just a little more time._

_Just the hours she would need to find the answer she longed for._

_The knowledge she sought, the one she needed desperately._

_Green and white, an ermine hunting prey ten times bigger, delicate and regal, and yet fierce and deadly. The summer where everything bloomed, when the plants flourished and the greenhouse threatened to overflow with life. Summer with its intimidating storms and its scorching heat and its relentless focus. Always moving forward, always looking into its next target, target locked and eyes wide, attentive, strong._

_Summer, which had lengthened itself and shaped the light to give her just a little more time._

_Just a little more time._

* * *

Constance wanders the library, wondering if she made the correct choice to dedicate all her magic to the research than the experiment itself. She feels useless, like the nobility she despised so much for sitting around and doing nothing while their people do all the heavy-lifting.

Nervous hands are clumsy hands, and Constance knocks the stack of books she is putting away off the table, the sound echoing through the room as the hardbacks slam against the floor. She curses, kneeling to pick them up and gather them once more. They are a hodgepodge of science and magic tomes, each specializing in the study of crests. In no way had they ever been substitutes for experiments (most refused to recognize the existence of her own crest, Noa, so she didn't know how the authors could have the gall to claim themselves to be experts), but they had been a starting point. They were a place to draw theories and hypothesize how Lysithea had been cut apart and how those terrible people had played goddess.

Constance's hands flip through the books, laying them so their spines lined up: _History of Crests and Forms_ , _Deconstructing the Abject in Magic_ , _Verisimilitude and Amplification in Magic_. 

Constance hesitates on the final book that is to go in the stack. The cover is worn and smells musty from spending years on the shelf of the Abyss. She assmes it was exiled there for its strong belief that the goddess played no role in the assignment of crests, but it is one of the first tomes they found in the library.

The days in the library that Constance remembers so clearly; the time spent with her lover who now lies still as Hubert and Linhardt hover over her. As she tucks the last book in the stack, she can’t help but to remember, regardless of how the happy and melancholy memories alike stab and prod at her heart in the moment.

Every part of Constance’s life had always felt dedicated to her goal. When she met Lysithea, as driven as she was, Constance thought she was the same as her.

There was a clear difference, however. She, herself, was striving for a goal while there was none in Lysithea’s sight. Constance would be satisfied seeing House Nuvelle restored to its former glory. She would be able to look around at her land, at her people, and proudly proclaim her victory against the trials and tribulations she had faced.

Lysithea would work until she died; never once relishing in her accomplishments.

What was it that made them different? Was it the ever-ticking clock that pulled them—tugged at them and refused to ever let go? Constance wondered what would be left of her if the cost of House Nuvelle would have to be her own life—would she even try?

It was soon after that Constance proudly identified having two goals to fulfill during her living years:

  1. Restore House Nuvelle back to its former glory.
  2. Assure Lysithea would live as long as she pleased.



(She would later amend the second goal, as she learned Lysithea would wish for immortality if it meant learning all the whispers the universe offered.)

It was a surprise that Lysithea von Ordelia was angry when Constance promised her a job as her research assistant. She was a proud, young woman as Constance was and refused to be marked down as a mere “assistant,” even if she would achieve many great accolades for working under the legendary heir to House Nuvelle. After a tense few days and some plying with sweets and promises of showing her the forbidden library buried in the Abyss, Lysithea happily took the position of research partner.

The first weeks traveling between libraries were filled with the excitement of discovery. Lysithea had never been to the Abyss’s library, and her entire face lit up when Constance pushed open the doors with a flourish. Constance had remembered the first time she wandered into the library; it was a veritable treasure cove. She had never dreamed of being able to fully browse through so much information. It was an intriguing collection, mostly made of the books and works that were rejected by the church. It was a myriad of these rejects combined with collections contributed by anonymous sources—travelers to the Abyss and dwellers alike. It was likely that half of it was nothing but lies, false information that had nowhere to call home. Like Constance, the notes and manuscripts were just looking for a place to be remembered. One day she would pen a paper detailing the rise and fall of House Nuvelle—one that spoke the secrets of the Noa crest and all they knew of its powers and origins. She would write of the horrors of the slaughter and their remaining daughter who retreated to the catacombs of the earth. She would tuck it away on the shelves and let it sit with the fiction masquerading as fact: her truth finally revealed with no way to ensure if it was genuine.

Constance would one day write that freeing, damning document—but for the time being, there was work that had to be done.

She had shown Lysithea around the library, the girl bounding from shelf to shelf like a child in a candy shop. Constance explained that it was an uncatalogued collection, but the younger woman seemed enthralled by the prospect of such a challenge. It was difficult to pull her out of the Abyss and return her to the surface that day, Lysithea surrounded by stacks of books that were twice her height. Lysithea returned again and again, never tiring of parsing through the information. Sometimes it was clear which books would be helpful—the ones that discussed the origins of crests in painstaking detail and refused to settle with the answer of them being a gift from the goddess—other times, they piled them into a “maybe” pile. Those books had more of a risk, detailing black magic, autopsies, and human experimentation. The information they offered was akin to reaching for the forbidden fruit: sources left anonymous with little-to-no documented research. Some of the pages were stained with dried blood that crusted and flaked off the paper.

Even if Constance regarded those titles cautiously, Lysithea had no qualms thumbing through the pages, muttering, “What they did to me was inhumane; our answer will be the same.”

They still had time, so they pushed those books aside and focused on the ones that could help them with little consequences. Looking back, Constance could pick out how foolish she was—everything in the world required give and take. In that moment, Constance had believed that she could take everything without care.

Both libraries carried little information, but they each had a penchant for reading between the lines. Sure, the crests were gifted by the goddess, but they highly doubted that such evil people had the goddess's blessing. From there, they looked at how the crests manifested. How did one know that they had a crest in the first place and how did the body display the change from within? It was a painstaking process, and Lysithea asked questions that Hanneman had no answers to and Linhardt puzzled over equally as hard.

Tucked away in the libraries between the walls of tomes, sometimes they had to entertain themselves. Lysithea would skim the shelves looking for the most racy books that she could find and tossed them to Constance. "For Dorothea."

Constance had made the mistake of opening one of said books when she first found herself at the Abyss. Hapi had laughed nonstop as her face turned red and she slammed it closed before explaining that the man who curated the library upstairs was not only weeding through sacrilegious texts, but also the ones that the students would pass to each other between classes and inspire “scandalous” activity. It had been the first time that Constance wanted to be a student on the surface—to be dodging the professors and causing trouble with the others. Her little family in the Abyss was perfect, but she began to daydream of the opportunity the academy could bring.

Delivering the books to Dorothea at the end of the day was always something a little brighter to look forward to. She shamelessly read the good erotica that they had found ("here you go, my dear Ingrid, you will love this one"), but the fun came with the terribly written books. They were outrageous and cringey at best, but offered hours of entertainment once their partner had decided they would be best delivered by speech.

Dorothea making fun of the prose turned into a group effort, each of the four women taking up a part and having nights where they read the worst romance and sexual scenes from the novels while laughing themselves half to death. Ingrid would always quickly get through the lines while Dorothea made sure to linger on each and every word, to the point that listening to the bad writing was a treat with her enchanting voice. Constance did her best to replicate the dramatics and eventually Lysithea would join in with their shenanigans, getting through the paragraph with a wide smile.

It was silly and ridiculous, but Constance valued their small traditions. It was nice to see Lysithea not drowned by the texts and instead making fun of the words, not having to decide which ones were true and which ones stood no chance of working. There were no questions of getting their hopes up with the silly romances, they were just as they expected—with an occasionally really good story thrown into the mix. 

The research continued.

Some days felt like they were making considerable progress, but they were few and far between. Constance gained a second research assistant (she refused the title as well, threatening to walk right back upstairs) in the form of Dorothea. Dorothea, Lysithea, and Constance would sit in the library for hours, flipping through the pages of books and marking passages that had potential. It was stressful work, but Constance had always liked a challenge. Besides, what better acclaim to her title would be curing the genius Lysithea von Ordelia. She was valuable to the empire, even if the war was holding the same as it had for years. They would fight, too, of course, but Edelgard had recognized the importance of their project and would attempt to give them as much time as possible to work. Constance hoped that it would bring her the recognition that she was in desperate need of.

Constance began to see a shift in Lysithea, however, her inability to sit still for long periods of time even when they flew by before. The woman would shift in her chair as if she was unable to get comfortable, but when Dorothea or Constance asked if she was hurting, she waved them off. She was never necessarily chatty like the other two while working, but she slowly became silent in the library, the once furocious reader turning the pages slowly and spending twice as long on the pages in front of her.

Lysithea wouldn't admit anything was wrong.

She also began to take from the stack of books that they considered too risky to try, writing out possible solutions and hypotheses that even Constance, who wasn't afraid to dabble in darker arts, had shook her head at and vetoed them. Dorothea also shook her head, ruffling Lysithea's hair and saying, "Darling, we can figure something else out."

The girls would be visited by Ingrid from time to time, who would marvel at their work and long lists of experiments they wanted to try. She would peer over their shoulders and compliment what they had written, even if she didn't know a bit of magic. Constance was always glad to see her knight not on the battlefield; sometimes she felt that she saw Ingrid while they were both surrounded by enemies more than they did in their own quarters. Ingrid would hold her at night and still smell like the dusty floor of the training grounds, sighing in relief when Constance insisted on rubbing her muscles until the tenseness went away and she could sleep. With quick kisses, Ingrid would retreat up the stairs and Dorothea would promise that they would be back for dinner. There were hardly any days when they made that promise on time, instead working until all three of them couldn't stand to read the words on the documents anymore.

There was one night where Dorothea had vanished to heal some of the soldiers that had returned from battle. They needed more people on standby, so she kissed Constance and Lysithea good night and made them promise not to stay up late. Without Dorothea to keep them in check and no windows to watch the sun dip under the horizon; it was hours before they realized how late they had stayed up.

Lysithea was yawning, stretching her back with a grimace that twisted her entire face. Constance looked at her across the table littered with books, notes, and glasses, and saw the bags that were deep and dark under her eyes.

"Dorothea is going to be tending to them all night," Constance said, doing her own body a favor and stretching it as well. She had to be better about taking breaks and walking, but she saw Lysithea every day. She saw how tired she was getting—there was no time for breaks or hesitation. "I'm sure Ingrid is with her to help them move. Maybe... let's stay down here for the night, my love."

They wandered through the Abyss hand in hand, taking the time that Lysithea needed to walk on stiff legs to the dorms that lay on the other side of the underground paradise. Constance's home had been abandoned during the war, the Church doing their best to push them out before Edelgard could reclaim the land. The few that chose to come back were brave souls, ones that still had nowhere else to go. Yuri... Balthus... Hapi...

Constance still wasn't sure what had happened to them.

They walked through the ghost town that Constance once called home, settling in the dorm she had shared for so many years with Hapi. She hoped that the girl didn't hate her, hoped with her whole heart that all three of them didn't. One day she would be able to show them her success, and she wondered if any of this research could apply to Hapi as well.

"You used to live here?" Lysithea asked as Constance grabbed blankets from the small closet, shaking them out to make sure that no creatures had decided to call them home. Once she was satisfied, she used one as a sheet on the bottom bed and grabbed a second to tuck over them. "It's so small. You didn't have your own room?"

"I shared this with Hapi," she said. "Balthus and Yuri lived next door, but for the most part it was just the two of us."

"Oh," Lysithea said, looking around. At the desk, there were still miraculously piles of pages that Constance had written herself when magical research meant nothing more than changing the color of liquid or creating materials that were edible. She felt foolish for ever believing those would be enough, not when there were people who depended on her for so much more.

"Are you tired?" Constance asked. "Although I appreciate not spending a second of my time in the cursed sunlight, I believe not having access to it is making the days stretch even longer."

“A bit tired for the night,” Lysithea said, hiding another yawn. Her face was still pulled taut in pain. It was slight, but enough that Constance could recognize it. She wanted nothing more than Lysithea to be alleviated of all the hurt. It wouldn’t do any good to force her to admit her suffering, but Constance smiled at her and earned a weak one back. “Nothing out of the ordinary.”

“I implore you to inform me if anything gets worse,” Constance said, only receiving a noncommittal nod. Both of them got ready for bed quickly, choosing to just shed their clothes and fold them over the back of the chair. They slipped under the covers and cuddled close to one another, not used to such a small bed with only two people. 

Constance reached out, tucking Lysithea’s hair behind her ear as she tried her best to calm down for the night, to steady her breathing and rest in the darkness with her love. Lysithea’s eyes were still drifting around the room, landing on a coat hanger where Constance’s and Hapi’s jackets still hung, dust beginning to cling to them. There were days where it was cozier to wear Hapi’s jackets and the woman would always let her, despite earning endless teasing and laughter from Yuri. Hapi’s bracelets still lay on the nightstand, abandoned and waiting for a morning that had never come.

Looking closely at Lysithea as she was distracted, Constance was drawn to the rise and fall of her chest. It was… much too quick. Lysithea’s breaths were shallow and Constance rested her hand against her neck, checking her pulse that felt odd and uneven.

“Lysithea? My dear,” she was wordless for a second, realizing that she had sat hunched over books with her all day long like this—never noticing in her focus that her partner could barely take a full breath. The shame flooded into her, Lysithea not meeting her eyes as she began to ask, “Is everything well? I can try to heal you, we can fetch Dorothea—”

“No, no, she has real soldiers to heal,” Lysithea said. Before Constance could contradict her statement of a _real soldier_ , Lysithea asked, “How come you didn't just... continue to live in the empire?" She took Constance's hand under the sheets, away from her pulse point. It was cold against hers and Constance did her best to warm them. 

"My situation is admittedly unique," Constance said, wanting her answer to give Lysithea something to ponder, something apart from the pain she was clearly in, but refused to admit. She was going to leave it at that, but then she realized who she was talking to. It was her partner, her lover, why should she bother to hide away everything that was done to her, especially since Lysithea had revealed all of herself? "According to records, as you likely recall, I bare the Crest of Macuil."

"Yes," Lysithea said.

"Well, that has always been a lie." Constance averted her eyes, choosing to talk to the wall instead of Lysithea. "My actual crest that I bear is the Major Crest of Noa. It has a similar penchant for magic, but—"

"It's bloodline died out long before. Noa is much more powerful for the darker magic," Lysithea whispered, aware of the gravity of the secrets that Constance had just revealed. "How?"

"The origins of my bloodline and House Nuvelle are very... discrete. We were required to keep the marriages pure in order to preserve our crest’s identity. There were many… unsavory practices that existed within, but they fell with House Nuvelle. They were buried in the rubble and will not emerge unless I allow them.” Constance paused, scooting closer to Lysithea until their foreheads touched. She could feel herself trembling, the effort of letting the secret go. Allowing it to fly free to the judgement of others. She could feel Lysithea’s too-quick breathing against her lips and kissed her gently. “Is it wrong to resurrect such a horror?”

“In your hands… I don’t think so,” Lysithea responded. Constance couldn’t bear to look her in the eyes, so she let them drift close, focused only on the slight warmth of her love and the scratchy surface of the blankets. “I would like to think my own horrors were used for good while on the battlefield. For an emperor who will prevent the same thing that happened to me—to us—from ever happening again.”

“Lysithea,” Constance said, wanting to will words of gratitude to her lips, but unable to. “Darling, you’re shaking.”

“Constance.” Lysithea’s voice was smaller than she had ever heard it before, her usual bravo and confidence cracking away. “It hurts. Everyday, Constance, it’s getting worse and worse.”

“Tell me where, I must be able to fix it.”

“It’s everywhere.” She sounded defeated, like she was relinquishing her goals, her life. “My feet ache… my knees feel still if Dorothea doesn’t cast a spell to help them in the morning. My fingers won’t stop _shaking_ and my chest… it hurts to breathe most of the time, Constance.”

Constance’s heart broke at the plea—the amount of time her name was whined. She wrapped her arms around Lysithea, pulling her to her chest where she would be able to protect her. Her hand drifted to her silver locks and smoothed them. Lysithea didn’t cry, but she let her body fall onto Constance’s, not bothering to hold her own weight.

“We are going to fix it, Love,” Constance whispered, trying to emulate the way Dorothea could calm any of them down with her melodious promises. “We are working so hard.”

“It is not enough.”

“It will be enough.”

That night, Constance had willed the magic silently to her fingers, letting it rush into Lysithea and trickle through her veins. She just wanted enough to soothe her, to let her have a night of rest.

Constance didn’t sleep that night. She continued to let the magic, weak as it was compared to the healers’, pulse into her. Let her rest completely with little pain for a single night. In the morning, she lied that she had slept and requested that Lysithea was honest with Dorothea about the amount of pain she was in. Their partner would be able to help if Lysithea let her.

After that, Lysithea stopped coming to the library. It was too difficult for her to get up and down the stairs, so Constance would bring the texts to her bedside, set the tomes open in her lap. Then, Lysithea was in enough pain that her eyes wouldn’t focus enough to read.

Constance found herself alone at their usual research table, her two research partners gone. Lysithea was on bedrest and Dorothea had to sit at her side day in and day out. Constance wanted to be there, as well, but Lysithea had insisted that she continued their work.

By the time she was forced to pass the final notes on the hypotheses and theories to Hubert and Linhardt; Lysithea was barely conscious enough to hear that more-or-less, they had done it.

It would have to be enough.

With their final parting kiss (Constance hated that her brain had already decided it would be the last with her sweetest Lysithea) she threw away the one goal she had been working on for years and years. There was only one wish; that this would be the treatment that would work. That her love would be okay. 

Constance is wrenched from her thoughts as the library doors open, Dorothea and Ingrid letting themselves in. 

The doors let through rays of sunlight, enough for Constance to realize she has spent her hours by going over the same action in an effort to keep her mind anywhere but the present. Even the painful memories of her past give her more security than the uncertain present, a present where all their efforts are on the line, a present she can't build, but look from the side. A present where she has to let others do what it was her labor to finish.

"Darlings…?" Constance asks, blinking a couple of times as her eyes adjust to the change of light and the painful jab her mind had inflicted on her by just reminding her what's at stake, what's happening in that precise second and she can't do anything but watch.

“Come on, it’s time.” Ingrid extends a hand and grabs her right, free now of books, quills and pieces of parchment, all the pieces that they had written together with Lysithea in a past that was to define their present. 

“Ingrid, darling, whatever do you mean?”

“Lysithea needs us and we need each other.” Dorothea grabs her left hand and tugs gently at her.

“I still need to...”

“Constance, I understand, I do, but this won’t make you feel better…” Ingrid runs her thumb on the back of her hand. Her callouses never take away how tender and gentle her touch is. “Nothing will, but we have to go through it together.”

“Besides,” Dorothea smiles, and despite the sadness that has darkened her expression for the last days, light beams from her, “do you trust Linhardt not falling asleep right after finishing this? We need to be there when it’s over. We need to see it to the end.”

Constance swallows and her eyes well up, but she stands strong and proud. They were right, of course, she has chosen her partners for several reasons, their intelligence is one of them.

They ought to see it to the end.

The light of the autumn afternoon is bright and uninviting. She squeezes their hands and tries to smile. It isn’t a full smile, barely an insinuation of what it could truly be. Constance sees the light of the autumn afternoon and her smile is small and her steps tired, but she takes solace from her partners and takes a step towards it.

Not even the sunlight would keep her from where she should be.

“Shall we, then?”

* * *

_It had been for naught._

_Lysithea had run out of time, she knew it._

_She knew it._

_For spring, winter and summer had tried. For the seasons and her partners had done everything in their reach to give her the answer she needed, to find the key to the vault that kept her past away from her. The path to recovering what had been taken away so many years ago._

_They had tried._

_With all their might they had tried._

_And they had failed._

_Autumn had arrived, and the withering season had taken a toll on Lysithea. It had drained her life, it had taken her strength, it had reminded her that she was running on borrowed time and that, as well, had an end._

_It had an end._

_She had met its end._

_Autumn made her wither, it weakened her magic, it made her body tremble and her fever rise. She fell ill, she fell powerless. Bedridden she fell as everything met its inevitable end outside._

_Feverish dreams where she could no longer think, she could no longer look for an answer._

_The years had clocked their final countdown._

_It was autumn and Lysithea had fallen._

_Autumn made her whither._

_And the strength of winter, the kindness of spring, the eagerness of summer could do nothing but watch and wait._

_Watch and wait._

_Autumn was the season where plants withered and animals aged. It was the season where communities looked for shelter and prepared for the long nights that were to come._

_Autumn was the season where Lysithea, sheltered by the guardians she had bound to through love, ran out of time._

_She had, finally, ran out of time._

_And her light, her magic, her knowledge, her genius, faded away in the shortening days of an autumn that was unusually cold in a war that raged in fire and blood._

_An autumn that saw an era come to an end and the fall of a powerful mage like the world hadn’t seen in ages who was yet to meet her final battle._

_One that, at the bottom of her heart, Lysithea doubted she could win._

* * *

The sun has long set by the time Hubert and Linhardt finally reappear. Both of them look haggard and exhausted, almost leaning on each other for support but not quite touching. Immediately, the three of them crowd around mages, desperate for some news, for some answers.

Hubert stops them with a raised hand before their volume grows any louder or frantic. “She lives but we will have no inkling if it has worked or not. Only time will tell.”

She lives.

She lives.

She lives. She lives. She lives, lives, lives, lives. 

And the words repeat themselves as the soothing balm that can cure their wounds and mend their skin fading the scars countless years of war have marked on them.

_She lives._

The night that closes upon them is a silent witness of the struggle that has unfolded for years and its final resolution in those tired yet hopeful words.

_She lives._

And they can hope for a future where the four of them are to be together with no restrictions, no countdowns, no borrowed time they need to return at the end. For the seasons have reshaped themselves and find in each other the strength they were missing and the time that had been stolen long ago. For the seasons revolted around each other in an endless cycle they were bound to, a cycle that tells their story over and over.

A cycle that tells the story over and over, as they wait for their fourth to wake up from the slumber that has finally turned from agitated to resting, for autumn has given Lysithea rest and peace for the first time. A cycle that has seen Lysithea heal, a cycle that has seen Lysithea bloom and blossom.

An autumn that has seen Lysithea reborn instead of wither.

They sit at her bedside, tending to her as she slumbers. Dorothea dabs gently at the sweat that has accumulated at Lysithea’s temple with a damp washcloth. Constance and Ingrid sit on opposite sides of the bed. Constance runs a soft, caring thumb over Lysithea's hand as Ingrid watches her, looking for any sign of distress that would make her spring into action.

Both Constance and Ingrid look up sharply when they hear Dorothea’s gasp.

“What is the matter?” Constance is at Dorothea’s side immediately, eyes scanning over her and Lysithea for any signs of injury but finding none. 

“Her hair,” Dorothea says, eyes wide in both shock and awe.

“What?” Ingrid is at the head of the bed now.

“Look!” Dorothea gently brushes a few strands of snow white hair out of the way so they can get a better look. 

There, among all of Lysithea’s pale hairs are a few darker strands. They peek through the white like the brown of trees reappearing after a long winter. The colour is a testament, a testament that Lysithea has survived the autumn with the strength of winter behind her, the promise of a gentle spring ahead of her, and the warmth of summer below her head. 

The seasons that had cared for her, that had watched her, that had fueled her.

That had healed her.

And now, in an autumn that was unusually cold and yet gentle in its nature, the cycle started anew, the cycle broke and started anew.

For they were together, and they would be for the seasons to come.

And there would be _many_ more seasons to come.

**Author's Note:**

> HELLO LINAAAAAAAAA my puntner in all pun related crimes!!! It’s your birthday!! Happy birthday! I hope you enjoyed the angst that we have written you (woo soggy birthday cakessss) Please know that I LOVE YOU AND I THINK YOU’RE AMAZING. Seriously how do you write so many words so quickly I am in awe please bless me with your magical powers. HAVE A GOOD DAY AND EAT LOTS OF CAKE. (Fallen Eagle for monthly readings!) -Reun / cafe_au_late
> 
> PAAAAAAAWTNER!!!!!!! IT’S HERE AND IT’S ANGSTY AND IT’S FOR YOU!!!! Soggy breakfast is best breakfast isn’t it? Now, I expect you to eat those cakes and enjoy your day, I love you so much! YOU AMAZING BEAN!! Seriously though, you know we’re here for you whatever you need and that I’m ready to send you lunch when you say the word -.- HAPPY BIRTHDAY!!! Kuro.
> 
> Mi amoreeeeee! Happy happy happy birthday to you! Enjoy the soggy breakfast we have prepared for you! Then have cake after! Thank you for being a wonderful friend and longtime hypequeer - Love you!! -Moni/Edelgard_Eisner
> 
> Linaaaaaaaaaaaa! Happy birthday!!! This piece ended up being such an absolute blast to write and I hope you enjoyed every bit of the angst we packed into it ;) Love you, eat a TON of cake, and I hope you enjoy the polyangst choochoo <3 --Molls/writingwithmolls


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